


Recovery

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: The Homecoming [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Post-Coital Cuddling, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t always share a bed.  Some nights John climbs the stairs to his old room and Sherlock doesn’t see him again until morning.  Other nights John appears next to Sherlock in the middle of the night, sometimes lying still on his back, staring up at the ceiling in silence, others spooning in behind him, slotting their bodies together, synchronizing their breath until John calms enough to sleep.  And then there are the times when John chooses to share Sherlock’s bed from the very start.  Tonight is one of those nights and Sherlock’s body vibrates with anticipation and joy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [londoninjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/londoninjune/gifts).



> Bless you all if you made it through "Collapse" unscathed and still breathing. I realized I kind of owed you all some aftercare. So here. Have ten pages of pure fluffy tenderness.
> 
> As always this story will make more sense if read in the greater context of The Homecoming series.

They don’t always share a bed.  Some nights John climbs the stairs to his old room and Sherlock doesn’t see him again until morning.  Other nights John appears next to Sherlock in the middle of the night, sometimes lying still on his back, staring up at the ceiling in silence, others spooning in behind him, slotting their bodies together, synchronizing their breath until John calms enough to sleep.  And then there are the times when John chooses to share Sherlock’s bed from the very start.  Tonight is one of those nights and Sherlock’s body vibrates with anticipation and joy.

John doesn’t say anything when Sherlock strips his clothes and crawls in naked beside him, he just pulls him close and touches.  Hands everywhere.  Lips following.  Sherlock’s body wakes up, sings, and everything compounds, one touch on top of the other, each kiss, each sigh, each murmured endearment and encouragement building, building until Sherlock’s brain shuts down, speech becomes an impossibility, and John coaxes something which seems completely miraculous to the surface.

Sherlock has brought himself to completion more times than he can count.  He is quite skilled at it.  He is efficient and quick.  Taking the minimal amount of time necessary to relieve such physical distractions has always seemed the logical choice.  But John has just taught him something entirely new.  A language he had hitherto not known.  

There is simple sexual release, and then there is this—this trust, this tenderness, this slow unfolding, the way John coaxes music from Sherlock’s nerves, and blood, and cells, like he is conducting a small symphony.  John is skilled and competent in many things, but in this—in this he is an artist.

And now there are fingers in his hair, and slow circles at the small of his back, and John, John whose release never came, but who doesn’t seem to care, still murmuring things against Sherlock’s temple, words Sherlock’s brain is too overwhelmed to form into anything coherent.  

But the tone is enough.  Praise.  Affection.  Love.  

John wants him.  

John loves him.  

John is here, and John is staying.

Small snatches of things start to register as the his body resets after the sensory rush.

“I’m trying—better, I promise—you—what I need—all I need.”

“Mmm…”  John’s body enfolding his, everything slick, and warm, and slightly sticky between them, and Sherlock thinks that maybe he should get up, should get a flannel and try to attend to the mess he’s made but John seems completely unconcerned, and so he doesn’t move, could barely move if he tried, truth be told.  Too soon.  Too much.  And so blissfully sleepy.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm…”  

“I mean it, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear me before?”

“Um-mm.”

John sighs, but Sherlock can hear a smile in it.  “I said I’m trying—to be better.  For us.  For this.”

“You’re perfect.”  And Sherlock means it.  He knows what John is saying, but this is true as well.

John doesn’t reply.

“Perfect.”  Again.  Nuzzling into John’s neck, because: the tang of perspiration, and skin, and that scent that John only gets when he’s aroused.

John chuckles softly.  “You’re biased I think.”

“Mmm…”

John’s fingers back in his curls.  Sherlock’s eyes slide shut.

“Was that good for you?”

As if John needs to ask.  How could he doubt?  And now Sherlock will have to say something, anything, even though no words could ever suffice.  “Mmm…”  Is all he manages.

John chuckles again.  “Good.  I’ve—I’ve wanted to—I’ve felt a little guilty, to be honest.  I took so much that first night in front of the telly, and you’d not…  All this time and I just took and took.”

“Isss fine.  Perfect.”

John buries his nose in Sherlock’s hair.  “Mm-hmm.  You said that, yeah.”

“All fine,” Sherlock clarifies.  He just needs John’s hands on his skin, breath on his neck, lips—lips wherever they please.  He just needs John.

“Okay.”

He wants to tell John all that this means, just the touching, the holding.  He wants John’s hands on his flesh.  He wants to be wrapped tight, and warm, and safe against his body.  Some days it is all he can think about.  That is becoming a problem, and he knows that he needs to find a way to deal with it, but not now, not here.

“No one ever touched me.”

“What?”  And it isn’t until he feels John pull back just a little to look down at the top of his head that he realizes he has said it out loud.  His cheeks go pink with shame, but John combs a hand through his hair, eases a thumb over his forehead.  “What did you say?”

“No one ever touched me.  I didn’t want them to.”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock tightens his arms around John’s waist, buries his face in his chest.  It’s easier.

“No one touched me, John.  Or if they did, they touched me at the wrong time, and in the wrong way, and it wasn’t at all what I needed.  I reacted badly.  So they stopped touching me at all.”

“No one as in…?”

“No one as in no one.”

“Family?”

“No one.”

John grows silent for awhile.  “Your parents?”  Incredulous.  “Your—your brother?”  More gently.

“No one.”  Sherlock is starting to weary of repeating himself.  He shouldn’t have even said anything in the first place and now John seems to be perseverating on the topic, and it’s getting wearying.

“The wrong time, in the wrong way, you said.  What do you mean?”

Sherlock huffs against John’s chest.  He doesn’t want to talk about this.  He can still barely form coherent thoughts, and now John is requiring conversation of him.  

“You touch me because you _want_ to, because you—you…”

“Because I love you,” John murmurs.  Sherlock looks up.  John’s eyes are soft.  He smiles.  “And because you’re so irritatingly attractive I can’t help myself most of the time, to be honest.”

Sherlock warms at the praise, but drops his eyes again.  _Too much…  Too much._   “Other people—they only touch to demand.”

John’s fingers which had been painting pictures against his scalp, still.  A tension comes to his body.  “Who?  Who demanded what, Sherlock?”  His voice is even and gentle, but it’s forced.  He’s angry.

Sherlock looks up.  John’s eyes are dark with it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Tell me who.” John orders.

Sherlock shakes his head.  “People. Everyone.”

“Demand what?”

“John…”

“Demanded what?”  John repeats in a tone Sherlock can never refuse.

“Compliance.  Acquiescence.  Conformity.”

John’s brow is knit with confusion and barely controlled rage.  “Who was asking you to comply and acquiesce to what, Sherlock?”  He’s trying at tenderness, but he’s failing.

Oh…  OH!  Predictable.  So John.  Boring.  No—not boring.  Understandable.  Endearing.  

“No—not.  No, John.  Nothing like—you’re thinking it was—no.  Not like that.”

John’s muscles relax a little, but his jaw still twitches, his eyes still look dangerous and fiercely protective.

“I was a difficult child.  Mommy and Daddy didn’t know what to do with me.  Teachers couldn’t be bothered.  Mycroft…”  His brother’s name catches in his throat.  His eyes suddenly bite.  _Too soon._  

John’s fingers weave back into his hair, soothe.

“People wouldn’t let me be,” he finally manages.  “If I was too much on my own, I was quite literally dragged over to play with other children.  If I was too focussed on something, and didn’t answer her, mummy would come over and lift me up by the arms to get my attention, take my face in her hand, force me to look at her.  Doctors and Psychiatrists poking and prodding all the time.  A teacher slapped me once for throwing a book in class.”

“What?!”  The tension has returned to John’s voice.

“I was eight, John.  They were nearly sixty.  You can relax.  I’m sure they’re dead.”

John lets out a small huff that might be a laugh.

“You let me be.”

“I do.”

“Yes.  You leave me alone when I’m working on things.  You don’t make ridiculous demands.”

“Yeah well—I just figured it was part of the package.  You did warn me the day we met.  I couldn’t very well come back and say I didn’t see it coming.”

“Does it bother you, though?  Really?”

“What?”

“That I get intensely— _focussed_.”

“Sometimes.”

Sherlock tilts his chin up and John looks down at him.  “Sometimes it’s three day stretches without a word.  That _can_ be a bit much.  Though—you’ve not really done that since I came back.”  John’s face changes with the sudden revelation.  “Why is that?” He asks.

 _Obvious.  Really!_   “Because I’m focussed on you.”

John lifts a brow.  The corner of his mouth twitches in what almost looks like confusion.  “Me?”

“Yes.  I’m focussed on you, so you don’t notice it as much.”

“I’m a case to be solved, am I?”

“No.  Just—think of it more like an uncharted country to be mapped.”

John blinks.  His eyes shift and soften.  “What?”

“I want to know everything.  For years I’ve been allowed in one small province.  Suddenly the whole country is free to explore, so—I’m exploring.” 

“Oh…”  John still looks confused, but there is something a little like awe and gratitude in his eyes. 

“Find anything interesting?”  It’s teasing in tone, but there is genuine curiosity too.

“Everything about you is interesting.”

John’s lips press together.  There is a ghost of a smile there, and a flush at his cheeks that wasn’t there before.  He lets out a small huff of a laugh.  He is uncomfortable with the praise, but not so much that he wishes the words had been unsaid.

“It’s really not,” he finally responds.

Sherlock smiles.  “It really is.”

“And you don’t mind me touching you?”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “I want you to touch me.  You know _how_ to touch me, _when_ to touch me.”

“Not sure how I managed that.”

“You're you.”

“You would tell me, wouldn’t you, though.  If it wasn’t good.  If it wasn’t right.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“But you would.”

“Yes.  Of course I would.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”  Johns relaxes again, shifts a little beneath him.  “We’re a mess.”

“Yes.”

“We should have a bath.”

“Together?”

“That okay?”

Sherlock nods.

“I’ll run it.”  John sits up, and Sherlock is forced to roll off him.  It’s cold in the room.  He lays on his back and stares at John as he retreats to the bath.  

He has a lovely arse.  Quite spectacular.  

There is more to John’s body than his pedestrian chinos and modest button downs would suggest to the average observer.  There is muscle strung tightly beneath softening flesh.  He is fit and stronger than his height and overall build would suggest.  He thinks John might be able to pin him— _easily_ —if he ever had a mind to.  Sherlock thrills a little at the thought and then files it away for future consideration.

John is humming again.  It’s becoming a habit, it seems—god help him!  And now the smell of something herbal and citrus is floating out on clouds of steam.  He’s put some daft scented thing in the bath water.  John is obsessed with bathing.  Oils, and salts and even occasionally candles.  He’ll spend nearly an hour in the bath sometimes.

Mrs. Hudson has gotten after Sherlock in the past, assuming it is him leaving the greasy ring around the tub.  Sherlock remains mum, lets her think what she wants.  John is oddly sensitive about people’s opinions of his bathing habits. 

“You coming?”  John calls from the bath.  

Sherlock sits up.  His skin still prickles, over-sensitized.  It doesn’t hurt, just burns mildly, but a bath will be nice.  Much better than a shower.  He walks into the toilet.  John is brushing his teeth.  “You ca geh in,” he says around a mouthful of toothpaste.  “Iss almos ready.”

Sherlock stares at the scar on John’s shoulder, the way the flesh has healed raised, how he can visually trace where the surgeons fit torn bits of flesh back together, and sewed him up.  He leans down and presses his lips just above it.

John stops brushing and smiles.  “Wha’s that for?”

Sherlock just shakes his head.

“Turn ah the waher.”  John nods toward the tub which is starting to get dangerously full.

Sherlock does, and then dips a finger in. Perfect. He lets some water out to allow for the water dispersement that two people are likely to cause and then gets in.  Lemongrass.  Whatever John has put in the water smells mildly of lemongrass and something…  Basil?  

“What on earth did you put in this bath water?”

John is finished brushing his teeth.  He turns from the sink.  “Bath salts.  You don’t like it?”

“It’s unnecessary.”

“It’s nice.”

It’s not particularly, but what is nice is John stepping carefully into the tub, kneeling down, arse squarely in Sherlock’s face, before slipping beneath the water and settling in the V of his legs. He leans back against Sherlock’s chest with a sigh.  “See.  Nice.”

“ _This_ is.  Yes.” 

John’s eyes slide shut.  The hair on his chest stirs in the eddies of bath water.  His flaccid cock bobs just under the surface.  His chest rises and falls, breath steady, calm. Sherlock looks down at John’s face: lines, shadows, furrows.  Grief and loss written all over him.  All of it beautiful.  And Sherlock aches with the amount of love he feels, aches so much he can hardly bear it.

“What did you mean before?”  John murmurs.  “A difficult child, you said.”

Sherlock sighs.

“You don’t have to talk about it.”  John’s eyes are still closed.

“It’s fine.  I was—I was just a very naughty boy.  I was always into things I shouldn’t be, doing things I oughtn’t.  I was easily bored, easily frustrated.  I had a temper.  And my parents weren’t young when they had me.  I was a handful.”

“You a handful.  Hmm…  Never would have guessed.”

“Shut up.”

John’s eyes remain closed, but he smiles.

“I threw tantrums when I was very small according to My…”  and he chokes on his brother’s name.  Feels that same tightness start to creep into every muscle.

John’s eyes slide open, he glances up through his lashes.  “Hey, you don’t have to talk about it.  Really.  It’s okay.  If it’s too…”

“It’s fine.” 

One of John’s hands slides over his knee under the surface of the water, stops, rests there with comforting pressure.

“According to Mycroft,” he forces out.  “I tantrumed all the time as a toddler, up until almost school age.  Mummy was at a loss.  Daddy could sometimes calm me.  But mostly I was left to Mycroft who could consistently quiet me.  Mostly he just let me be—let me wear myself out as I recall.  

“‘ _Prevention is the best cure_ ,’ he would always say, and was constantly cross at Mummy for trying to force us into social situations with other children.”

“You threw fits because they made you be around other children?”

“Have you been around four year olds, John?”

“I _am_ a doctor.”

Sherlock ignores this.  “They’re awful creatures.  Loud, messy, selfish, demanding.”

“Hmm…  Again, sounding familiar…”

Sherlock reaches down and pinches at the top of John’s hip, just below his ribcage.  He twitches and lets out a small yelp.

“Hey!”

“You’re being boring.”

John smiles.  “Sorry.  You were saying…  Children.  Awful.  Fit inducing.”

“Yes.  I didn’t throw fits because they made me be _around_ other children.  I threw fits _because of_ the other children.”

John is staring up at him, brow knit in a futile attempt to understand.

“Oh, I can’t explain it.  But, it was not what I wanted, and Mummy didn’t seem to care.”

“Or maybe she cared, but just didn’t know how to help?”

“Don’t defend her.”  Sherlock knows he’s being difficult, but he doesn’t like to talk about these things, and he’s only making the effort for John, and now John’s taking Mummy’s side.  _Unforgivable_. 

John looks up at him again.  “I’m not.  I”m sorry.  I just liked your Mum.  She seemed nice.”

“She is nice,” Sherlock agrees, his voice disproportionately petulant.  He hates when people make amiable observations he can’t disagree with about people who get under his skin.

“But she made things difficult for you?”

“Yes.”  Maybe John understands after all.

John settles back against him.  “Parents do have a way of doing that.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s not talk about this anymore, okay.  Let’s—let’s not talk at all.”

“Yes.  Let’s not.”

They don’t.  They sit in the water until it starts to cool, and then Sherlock washes John’s hair, and lets John wash his in return.  They share Sherlock’s shower gel, and bicker over who get’s the larger towel when they finally get out, and then they go back to bed.

The sheets smell like pheromones, and sweat and come.  Sherlock curls into them, pulls the blankets almost up to his nose, sighs contentedly when John entwines their limbs, and crawls nearly on top of him to sleep.  John is half hard, and warm, hair damp, lips pressed against Sherlock’s neck.  It’s heady.

“I will fix things, you know.” Softly, just behind Sherlock’s ear.

“Hmm…?”  So close to sleep.

“For us.  For this.  I will find a way to—to get past…”  John sighs in weary frustration.  “I’ll find a way to be what you need.”

“You are what I need.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, and I meant what I said.”

“I love you,” John whispers, barely audible, but sincere and ineffably sad.

“I love you too.  Go to sleep.”

And Sherlock lays awake for hours, just listening to John breathe.  He wraps his arms around him, and draws him closer when he starts to shudder, his eyes shifting rapidly beneath his lids in nightmare-plagued REM sleep.  He manages to hold him when he wakes shouting, sweating, eyes wild and fists flailing, and he brushes tears aside with kisses, strokes calm back into spasming muscles, speaks softly of everything and nothing until John falls back to sleep and he joins him.

They sleep together.  

They sleep until dawn.


End file.
